-

Concho. Ah, a trick! Coward! you cannot destroy my aim.

Starbottle. I overlook the--er--epithet. I wished only to ask, if
you should be--er--unfortunate, if there was anything I could say to
your--er--friends.

Concho. You cannot make the fool of me, coward. No!

Starbottle. My object was only precautionary. Owing to the position in
which you--er--persist in holding your weapon, in a line with my
right eye, I perceive that a ray of light enters the nipple,
and--er--illuminates the barrel. I judge from this that you have been
unfortunate enough to draw the--er--er--unloaded pistol.

Concho (tremulously lowering weapon). Eh! Ah! This is murder! (Drops
pistol.) Murder!--eh--help (retreating), help!

[Exit hurriedly door C., as clock strikes. COL. STARBOTTLE lowers his
pistol, and moves with great pomposity to the other side of the table,
taking up pistol.

Starbottle (examining pistol). Ah! (Lifts it, and discharges it.) It
seems that I am mistaken. (Going.) The pistol WAS--er--loaded! [Exit.

SCENE 4.--Front scene. Room in villa. Enter MISS MARY and JOVITA.

Miss Mary. I tell you, you are wrong, you are not only misunderstanding
your lover, which is a woman's privilege, but you are abusing my cousin,
which, as his relative, I won't put up with.

Jovita (passionately). But hear me, Miss Mary. It is a year since we
were betrothed; and such a betrothal! Why, I was signed, sealed, and
delivered to him, on conditions, as if I were a part of the rancho; and
the very night, too, I had engaged to run away with him! And during that
year I have seen the gentleman twice,--yes, twice!

Miss Mary. But he has written?

Jovita. Mother of God! Yes,--letters delivered by my father, sent to HIS
CARE, read by him first, of course; letters hoping that I was well,
and obeying my father's commands; letters assuring me of his unaltered
devotion; letters that, compared with the ones he used to hide in the
confessional of the ruined mission church, were as ice to fire, were
as that snow-flower you value so much, Mary, to this mariposa blossom I
wear in my hair. And then to think that this man--this John Oakhurst, as
I knew him; this man who used to ride twenty miles for a smile from me
on the church porch; this Don Juan who leaped that garden wall (fifteen
feet, Mary, if it is an inch), and made old Concho his stepping-stone;
this man, who daily perilled death for my sake--is changed into this
formal, methodical man of busines